


Special Remedies

by canis_lupus_nubilus



Category: Power Rangers Ninja Steel
Genre: Boy-love, Fluff, M/M, Nurse Complex, One-Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 00:28:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11093118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canis_lupus_nubilus/pseuds/canis_lupus_nubilus
Summary: Brody is sick, and Preston is determined to nurse him back to health. Short and fluffy.





	Special Remedies

**Title:** Special Remedies  
**Author:** canis-lupus-nubilus  
**Series:** _Power Rangers Ninja Steel_  
**Rating:** T  
**Chapter:** One-Shot  
**Genre:** Romance/Comedy  
**Pairings:** Brody/Preston  
**Summary:** Brody is sick, and Preston is determined to nurse him back to health. Short and fluffy.  
**Warnings:** Boy-love. Don’t like, don’t read.

* * *

Thinking back, he vaguely – _vaguely_ – remembered someone telling him that he should know better. There should have been red flags; there probably were, come to think of it. At some point it should have occurred to him to be a bit smarter. Instead, he’d decided to charge out into a torrential Sunday downpour to go for a run. And he regretted it now, with every (aching) bone and muscle in his body, even if it had only been for the sake of “a little extra something” to “build up endurance.” And, truth be told, he _should_ know better, but this nightmare of a cold hadn’t started with Brody’s ego. He'd be back at school right now with the others if it hadn’t been for Cal, egging him on with his discounting, “You’d have to be _crazy_ to be out in this weather,” or the self-assured follow-up which had more or less sealed Brody’s fate: “Bet you won’t do it.”

The boyish, prideful, and somewhat naïve part of Brody’s sense of self had decided, then and there; and that had been that. Unable to resist a dare… and now he was dying, fading away into nothingness, his sheets gumming sweat and his head throbbing faintly, still unusually warm. He’d die young, a martyr, surrounded by friends…

Well, okay, he may have been embellishing – just a tad. Forgive the sickly their theatrics. Hayley had been pretty straightforward, taking her hand away from his forehead: “You caught a cold. Just need some good remedies in you until your fever breaks. You’ll be fine, though.” She’d then taken a small bottle of some kind of awfully viscous and potent-tasting liquid the color of absinthe that, after swallowing, had made Brody curse in a way he was sure he’d never done before if the look on Hayley’s face had been any indication.

After making sure he was going to be okay on his own, Hayley had left him alone in her bed, having been kind enough to lend it, turning it into a temporary sickbed. The trouble with spending a decade in space was that when you finally made it back to Earth, resources like a place to live, or transportation, or knowledge of current events, were sparse. In times like these it became more apparent than ever how lucky Brody was, how blessed to have the close circle of friends he had. Well, friends, sure, and a little bit more…

“Speak of the Devil,” Brody muttered, opening his eyes lightly at the sound of the bedroom door opening up again. He smiled weakly, seeing who it was. As the other boy inched his way in, a tray balanced carefully upon his right palm and a flimsy grocery bag hanging from his arm, his bottom gave a fidgety wiggle to close the door behind him. Brody watched said bottom closely, not quite courteous enough to keep his eyes from lingering as the boy turned to him, offering a bright but empathetic smile. Closing his eyes again, feeling slightly more content, Brody added with more of a grunt than he’d intended, “It’s a school day.”

“I know,” Preston said, coming to the side of the bed and placing the tray on Hayley’s nightstand. “I skipped today.”

Brody’s eyes opened again, this time with genuine curiosity. “You skipped?”

A quiet, “Mmhmm,” was all in the way of response Brody received as Preston began to preoccupy himself with the contents of the tray: a small bowl that issued curlicue ribbons of steam and smelled strongly of broth.

Inhaling the scent from the confines of the bed, Brody sighed heavily. “That’s not like you,” he said, turning to better see the other boy. “Skipping school.”

“Skipping school to take care of a sick friend,” Preston corrected him. “Hayley sent a group message saying you were staying here because you'd caught a bug or the flu or something like that.”

“Yeah,” Brody said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes into the back of his head. “Something like that.”

“We figured as much, anyway. The others are coming by after school. I let Hayley know not to look for me – just for today, at least…” Preston’s voice trailed off; finishing his preparations, he lifted the tray and motioned for Brody to sit up in bed. “Here,” lowering it gently into the other boy’s lap, “I come bearing gifts.”

The intoxicating aroma of chicken and herbs rose into Brody’s nose, nearly suffocating him at first inhale. “Might have struggling sinus cavities right about now but I can smell _that_.” Taking the spoon provided and giving the soup a slow stir, “Chicken soup.”

“My mom always made soup for me when I was a kid and missed school sick,” Preston began, leaning against the nightstand and watching Brody take small, childlike sips. “Sometimes I’d stand at the counter and watch her… Came in handy this time, I guess.”

“It’s delicious,” Brody said after swallowing another piping, delicious mouthful. “Don’t think I’ve ever had soup this good.”

“That’s because you’re ill.” Preston’s eyes scanned the perimeter of the room, taking in the subtle, casual decoration, the occasional picture framed upon the wall. And on the nightstand, against Preston’s fingers, a photo of the five of them, together: some time just after Brody’s arrival, when he’d quite literally fallen from the sky and ushered in a new phase of their lives… Smiling faces all around; especially Brody, smack-dab in the middle. Their Brody; his Brody…

“I hear stuff like this always tastes better homemade,” Brody offered, noticing Preston’s quiet change. “You’ll spoil me.”

Preston smirked, beginning a slow walk around the bed, looking more closely at the room and its environs. “Couldn’t do that even if I wanted to,” he replied.

“Don’t say that or I might start believing it.”

At this, Preston turned abruptly, his eyes fixed upon Brody’s. His expression, at least from Brody’s perspective, was quite difficult to read. “If you weren’t so ego-driven, you wouldn’t be sick in bed right now,” he said, the sudden steeliness in his voice surprising Brody.

“Let me guess: _I should have known better—"_

“You should have known better.”

“It’s not that big a deal,” Brody said through clenched teeth, moving the tray aside and trying to sit up straighter but groaning from the pressure of his sore muscles. Grimacing, he shrugged. Pretending not to see on the other boy’s face the look of someone absolutely unconvinced and maybe even a little annoyed, he added, “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Preston replied, and Brody was sure there was a hint of sibling-esque sarcasm there, on the tip of the other boy’s tongue. “But you’re gonna’ get yourself killed.”

Brody’s eyebrows raised and he grinned, not meaning to seem disrespectful but slightly taken aback nonetheless. “From a _cold_ , Preston?”

Preston shook his head, placing both hands on the edge of the bed and leaning slightly forward over it. His figure seemed almost maternal in its protectiveness, something from which Brody took no small amount of comfort even if he didn’t vocalize it as such. “That’s not what I mean,” Preston began steadily. “What happens if we’re fighting together and your impulsiveness leads to something more dangerous happening? Then you’re hurt, or worse. We’ve got to stick together, look out for each other…” His voice trailed off again. Brody watched him carefully, sniffling in the momentary quiet. “Some things soup won’t fix,” Preston said, finally.

“You’re worried about me,” Brody said. It wasn’t a question, and they both knew it.

“I’m worried about everyone,” Preston responded with contemplation, though Brody could sense something unsaid underneath the folds of Preston’s words. “You just tend to be more reactionary than the rest of us, so you take some special caring for sometimes…”

Brody smiled. There it was, in Preston’s usual vague, wrapped-and-rewrapped presentation, cleverly placed for Brody to find. “Special,” Brody repeated under his breath, just loud enough that Preston would hear. “If you didn’t sound so much like a schoolteacher I’d think you were trying to tell me something.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Preston said, returning to his usual demeanor, his voice calm as it had been before. Trying unsuccessfully to hide a growing grin, he muttered, “I’m only playing wet nurse for one day only. Enjoy it while you can.”

“You like playing nurse,” Brody professed.

Preston rolled his eyes slightly, exhaling and making his way back to the nightstand, ignoring as best he could Brody’s own developing grin and whatever coy suggestiveness lay underneath it. Silently, he cursed his godawful habit of flushing profusely under pressure, which he was fairly certain was betraying him right about now, if the other boy’s face held any clues.

“That’s fine,” Brody said, resting his hands behind his head and leaning against the headboard. “I don’t mind letting you be in control every once in a while.”

“That’s your ego talking,” Preston replied, strategically turning away and searching rather desperately through the grocery bag for something at the bottom and making more than a little noise in the process. “It’ll get you into trouble.”

“My ego’s never wrong,” Brody suggested, adjusting his shirt and the clammy, slightly clingy sweatpants that clung needily to his legs. “I can tell when someone is trying to tell me something, even if they’re trying really, _really_ hard to hide it from me. And what you’re trying to tell me, Preston Tien, is that, deep down in those special, hidden recesses of your heart, you care for me.” Slapping his inner thigh hyperbolically, he added, “I mean like how Hayley cares for Calvin. _That_ kind of stuff.”

“Listen to that,” Preston said, standing up straight, his right hand holding onto something, while his left moved his bangs out of his eyes. “That’s almost prophetic. The person who said _that_ must be smart and brave and charming _and_ handsome.”

“You’re being sarcastic again,” Brody said. His right hand, playfully grasping and tugging the fabric of Preston’s sweater, pulled selfishly, encouragingly. “Tell the person underneath the sarcasm that I like him very much, too. But I bet he already knew that…”

He’d meant for it to sound reassuring, not alluring or seductive. It was kind of hard to pull off “enticing and fetching” when your head felt like a preheated oven and your eyes were somewhere between glassy and rainforest-level misty as a result. He didn’t even want that – not really. What he wanted, and what he hoped he had conveyed, was the truth: that he really _did_ care for Preston just as strongly (though perhaps not quite as subtly) as Preston cared for him. Not that it was the other boy’s fault. Preston had always been shyer, more reserved; he chose his words deliberately, carefully, each one as precious as food. Compared to Brody’s more boisterous zeal, the other boy was practically a sainted monk. But there had been moments, quiet and private, when the two boys had been together and Brody (rather devilishly, he admitted, but still) had managed to pull out little threads of pleasure, little hidden secrets cleverly tucked away and tied into knots Preston must have been sure no one would reach. Their little secret. And Brody was fine with that, though he admittedly took pleasure in seeing the way the other boy’s cheeks colored with every suggestive look, every little quip seductively put together and tossed his way when the others might overhear… Just being playful, Brody would say, when Preston would later elbow him in the side and look at him exhaustedly but not without that familiar hint of a grin charting the terrain of his mouth… And Brody would smile, indulging his playfulness…

Of course, pulling the other boy closer to him, he regretfully took notice of the thing that had been surreptitiously hidden from view before. His stomach lurched and he groaned, falling back against the headboard and shielding his eyes with his forearm.

“No,” he said sharply, like a disobedient child. “ _No_.”

Preston sighed, having seemingly predicted this kind of reaction. It would seem Hayley had given him a brief heads-up and left the emerald-colored medicine for him to find. “Don’t be that way. Come on – every three hours, it says.”

“I take it all back. Everything.” Brody shook a bit at the memory of just how dreadful the taste had been. “Hell is empty and the devils are here.”

“Glad to hear you’re listening in English class, but if you don’t take this medicine you won’t get better.” Adding, for emphasis: “And I’ll be very, very mad at you.”

“I’ll live.” Brody groaned petulantly, dramatically, turning over onto his stomach and burying his face into his pillow. “Or die. I don’t care which,” he mumbled.

After a moment of silence, Brody felt himself being prodded in the side. Hard. “ _Ow_.”

“Don’t make me force you to take it,” Preston quipped, though truthfully it was also a warning.

“This is sadism,” Brody moaned, grimacing and turning his nose away from the proffered container. He sat up properly again, eyeing Preston cautiously. “You’re a sadist.”

“Brody Romero you take this medicine and stop whining and get well again or I’ll never forgive you.”

But Brody merely shook his head and crossed his arms, closing his eyes tight like a kid being asked to only eat his vegetables before dessert. “No way you’ll ever make me take something as pungent, vile, offensive, repulsive, disgusting, _evil_ as—”

He stopped, his words colliding like so much volatile traffic in his throat, feeling the other boy’s lips press forcefully against his own. For a moment, his head seemed to grow warmer, heavy and full – though it was doubtful being sick had anything to do with it. He felt the rough, dry layers of the skin of his own lips as they submitted to Preston’s which were wet, cool, even sweet, like lingering traces of sugar after a snack… By the time the other boy had pulled away and Brody’s mouth had fallen partially open in surprise, he was too late and, frankly, too weak of will to object to the container being pressed against his lips and tilted back into his mouth. He swallowed obediently, grunting and groaning and putting up one heck of a fuss along the way.

“Like I said,” Brody eventually continued, as though nothing had happened, “sadistic.” Unbeknownst to him, however, his cheeks were now the same bright pink shade that Preston’s had previously been.

“You are such a baby.” Preston placed the tiny container on the nightstand and pulled something else out of the bag. “Honestly…”

At first, Brody couldn’t quite tell what the procured item was, and he curved his neck slightly for a better look lest the other boy force upon him more diabolical, lengthy tortures. But once Preston removed the small blue cap and stuck his fingers inside, the menthol smell, unbelievably dense, was strong enough to knock Brody back. “Wow,” he said, laughing and sucking in a heaving amount of air into his nostrils as best he could. “We’re really pulling out all the stops today, aren’t we?”

“Lie back,” Preston instructed him, two fingers coated with the medicine’s gooey, almost gelatinous substance. “And lift your shirt up.”

Brody complied, a bit more eager and invested in this particular remedy. He pulled up his shirt to his chin, struggling to get it high enough. As Preston sat at the bedside, waiting patiently, Brody finally removed the shirt completely, tugging incessantly as the thing tried to stick to his moist, sweaty skin. “Make it easier for you,” Brody said as he laid back against his pillow.

“This is going to be really strong at first,” Preston warned him, leaning over and scratching his nose with his free hand.

“Don’t worry.” Brody closed his eyes, signaling to Preston his willingness and readiness. “Give me your worst.”

Preston smiled, resting his gooey fingers softly against breastbone and lingering, feeling the warm skin there, letting Brody get used to the assuredly icy, stinging sensation of the rub. “Could have sworn my worst was more than you could handle. Or am I misremembering?”

“Misremembering,” Brody said through pursed lips, his chest heaving up, responding to the sharp sensations shooting through his skin and into his muscles as the rub began to do its work. Yet as Preston’s fingers made their slight semicircles, little pillars of shapes, Brody’s muscles relaxed, giving in to the cold as it clashed with the rising, stirring heat in his chest and head… _Like a painter making his masterpiece_ , Brody thought, eyes closed. _And my body, the canvas_ …

Indeed, Preston’s maneuverings were deliberate, meticulous: he made sweeping movements here, a slower, steadier one there, always paying close attention to the other boy’s inhales and exhales, the shaky, stuttering rhythm of his breath. If it seemed that the sensations were a bit much, he’d slow himself and wait a moment before continuing, his fingers reaching into the little tub on the nightstand for more emerald goop. His attention fully gathered by his craft, he couldn’t have noticed the stray hand climbing its way up his free wrist, touching softly… Until he did notice. And his circuitous, therapeutic movements ceased; he looked back at Brody, whose fingers were now rubbing lightly the space between wrist and forearm and whose eyes were open again, only just.

“Hey,” Brody said.

“Hey,” Preston said expectantly back to him.

Brody’s head rocked wearily, lazily side to side. It seemed he was thinking of something to say. “I really am sorry for worrying you,” he finally murmured.

Preston sighed, taking a bit of tissue from the box on the nightstand and wiping his fingers clean. “It’s nothing,” he replied, and Brody’s searching fingers found their way back to his wrist as it dropped back onto the bed. “You just get ahead of yourself sometimes. Leave it to me to worry myself over a knucklehead.” Brody grunted, clearly disagreeing, stirring a laugh from deep within Preston’s chest, full and hearty. “Trip over your own feet trying to show off.” He watched as Brody’s chest achieved its normal rising and falling, by now adjusted to the strength of the medicine.

“Do you feel better now?” Brody asked, and Preston noted not a trace of teasing: a genuine question, full of the same quiet curiosity and anticipation Preston had come to recognize in his own voice time and time again during moments like these, just between the two of them. A bit rich, Preston thought, considering which of the two of them was currently sick on his back in bed, but nevermind. He considered Brody's question.

After a moment, Preston replied, “I do. A lot.”

“Because you were able to take care of me?”

“Something like that,” Preston said.

Brody closed his eyes, saying nothing, presumably satisfied with the other boy's answer. Before he had a chance to open them again, however, he felt the shifting weight of something, someone, climbing over his torso and resting on his left side. Something heavy, a head of hair and the warmth of a cheek, came to rest against the lower portion of his chest; a foreign leg wrapped itself around his own. He opened his eyes again when the shifting had ceased, and he lowered his gaze to the boy huddled close against him.

“You know,” he began quietly, resting his fingers comfortably against Preston’s head and playfully running his fingers through his hair. “Between surprise kisses and this, you’ll be sick next. And I'll get to give you all these speeches.”

“ _Hrmmph_.”

Brody smiled. _Okay_ , he thought happily. _I got it_.

“Then you’ll have to be the one to take care of me,” he heard Preston utter after they’d fallen back into silent breathing, the synchronized beats of hearts.

“Oh yeah?” Brody asked, his fingers by now impatient, moving on to traverse the more sensitive region of Preston’s neck, the little crook that, it turns out, is really quite ticklish. “I’ve got some secret remedies of my own, you know.”

“Don’t you go thinking of something spiteful,” Preston mutters, raising his head slightly and speaking with an audible vibration in his throat. “As revenge, or anything like that, Brody. I only did everything Hayley told me to do, anyway…”

“Oh, and here I thought _you_ made that soup all on your own. Because you _cared_ about me,” Brody replied. He prodded the other boy’s arm, smiling.

“Almost everything,” Preston corrected himself softly, burying his face more deeply into Brody’s torso until he had settled down again, content and comfortable.

“No evil medicine,” Brody assured him, leaning his head back against his pillow again and letting his eyes tiredly droop, the gentle warmth of hazy sleep coming steadily over him. “But probably just as intense.” More hasty maneuvering down below at this. Brody chuckled. _Always the shy one_ …

He whispered to Preson, after a time: “Better not fall asleep here, like this… We’ll sleep until after school ends, and the others will show up and see this sight… Wouldn’t be much of a secret then, right?”

But Preston didn't move away, didn’t stutter any kind of protest or groan. He rested, very still, until his breathing began to suggest that he was sleeping.

And Brody, understanding, just as gratified, allowed his eyelids to fall closed again, his arm wrapping tightly, protectively, over the other boy’s neck – devoted and guarding and reassuring. The feverish heat at his forehead, momentarily allayed, pulled him, eventually, back into the distant comfort of sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for your continued support! Comments and thoughts are always welcome.


End file.
